


Training Wheels Not Required

by zimriya



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Piningjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimriya/pseuds/zimriya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every morning, Enjolras makes the same route through his neighborhood for his run. Grantaire just so happens to be the neighbor who can’t keep his shirt on.</p><p>Formerly <a href="http://zimriya.tumblr.com/post/54851693763/training-wheels-not-required-the-bike-fic">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Training Wheels Not Required

**Author's Note:**

> Originally notfic here.
> 
> Betaed by Murf, as always. All other mistakes are my own.

**Training Wheels Not Required**

\--

Enjolras takes up running because running soothes his mind; it helps him think. He had a scooter as a kid, but when they moved in together, Courfeyrac had taken one look at the thing and laughed for a good few days, so Enjolras ended up selling it at yard sale and never looking back. He’d tried explaining to Courfeyrac how going in circles was just mindless enough that his creativity was truly able to flow, but Courfeyrac had just kept laughing about how “creativity” and “his name” were not synonymous in the slightest. So the running thing becomes his getaway, and for a while it works.

Until Grantaire.

Or rather, until the attractive man who lives two blocks from Enjolras’ house and seems to have a problem with normal clothes.

“Seriously,” says Enjolras, one morning, while Combeferre types on his computer at the kitchen table. “I kind of want to buy him a shirt or something.”

“You want to do a lot more than buy him clothes!” shouts Courfeyrac, from where he’s been sent away to the other room.

“I know where you live, Courfeyrac!” says Enjolras, loudly. “But seriously he’s never wearing a shirt.”

Combeferre sighs. “To be clear, you’ve seen this guy how many times?”

“Twice,” says Enjolras, somewhat reluctantly. “But it’s the principle.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s just your dick!” says Courfeyrac. “Unable to handle how very hot Grantaire looks without a shirt!”

“His name is Grantaire?” says Enjolras, somewhat helplessly. There’s a pause. “I mean, shut up.”

“Oh my god,” says Courfeyrac. “Combeferre, close the lap top, I think we have a problem.”

Enjolras just sighs, and lets Courfeyrac come back into the kitchen.

\--

“So what you’re going to do,” says Courfeyrac, setting yet another pair of running shorts onto the already towering pile in Enjolras’ arms, “is run by Grantaire’s house again and talk to him.”

Enjolras follows him through the store blankly. “Okay?” he says.

“Grantaire is very nice,” continues Courfeyrac. He makes a series of turns that let Enjolras figure out that what they’re actually doing is heading for the dressing rooms, not wandering aimlessly so that Courfeyrac can continue lecturing. “And he has a fabulous physique because he does more sports than should be physically possible,” continues Courfeyrac. “Which you know.”

Enjolras moans, and flushes, and tries to cover his face with his hands. He can’t, because of all the clothes, so he settles for resting his cheek on the pile of shorts. “I hate you,” he tells Courfeyrac.

“You love me,” says Courfeyrac, “because I know exactly how you’re going to win Grantaire over.”

Enjolras peeks up at him.

“You’re going to run past him in fabulous running shorts and he will come chasing after you and your fabulous ass,” says Courfeyrac.

Enjolras hits him.

He puts on the pants, though, and spends a gratuitous amount of time frowning at his ass in his mirror later that night.

\--

“So are we clear on the plan?” says Courfeyrac, the next morning, as Enjolras laces his shoes. He tries to hand Enjolras a flower clip for his bangs, again, and Enjolras considers slapping him.

“There is no plan,” he says. “I’m just going running.”

“By Grantaire’s house,” says Courfeyrac.

“No,” says Enjolras, as he finishes he left shoe and starts on the right. “Just out.”

“Out by Grantaire’s house,” says Courfeyrac.

Enjolras sets his feet back down on the ground and glares at him. “For the last time, no,” he says.

“You’re wearing my shorts,” points out Courfeyrac.

“I needed new ones anyway,” growls Enjolras, blushing a little, and stalks towards the door.

Courfeyrac whistles at him. “If you go end up going by Grantaire’s house tell him I am the reason you’re wearing the shorts,” he says. “In fact, when I get invited to the wedding I want that to be in my invitation.”

Enjolras flips him off.

“Or rather, put it in the default invitation for everyone,” continues Courfeyrac. He comes around to stand in front of Enjolras and grins at him. “Better yet, make me be best man so I can give a speech.”

Enjolras is seriously starting to worry that his friend has no sense of self preservation. “Courfeyrac,” he says, slowly. “I am going to count to three.”

“Fine, fine,” says Courfeyrac. He steps to the side to let Enjolras pass out the door. “But think about what I said for invitations.”

“Goodbye, Courfeyrac,” says Enjolras, and slams the door.

He runs by Grantaire’s house again, because it’s part of his route. Nothing more.

(That the man is apparently attempting to read a book and get a tan is just a bonus. A terrible bonus that ends with Enjolras nearly braining himself tripping over his own feet, but a bonus.)

\--

Grantaire has, for some reason, decided to invite people over to play beach volley ball on his front lawn. Enjolras discovers this one morning, when he goes by on his way home. His friends are apparently equally attractive--one of them the girl who’d been tanning with him a week back, and another a terrifying bear of a man with a Mohawk. The third friend is pale, with reddish hair and far too many freckles, and also Jehan Prouvaire. Enjolras is going to kill Courfeyrac.

After he’s finished scraping up his knees on the sidewalk, apparently, because the volleyball comes out of nowhere and he hits the ground to avoid a concussion.

“I’m so sorry!” says Grantaire. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” manages Enjolras getting to his feet. “I’m fine.” He hands Grantaire the fallen volleyball and winces.

“That looks painful,” says Grantaire.

Enjolras wipes at the scrapes and sighs. “I’ve had worse,” he says.

“Do you want a band-aid, at least?” says Grantaire.

“It’s okay,” says Enjolras.

“If you say so,” says Grantaire, sounding somewhat unconvinced. He’s wearing very little again--just a pair of too-low shorts--and Enjolras notes he’s also not wearing shoes. It looks like someone has painted his nails bright pink--and not done a good job of it. “Sisters,” says Grantaire, when he notices Enjolras’ eyes. “I’m Grantaire.”

He holds out his hand, and Enjolras somehow manages to take it. Grantaire does most of the shaking, so he’s saved on that front, but the blazing heat of his palm is doing nothing to help Enjolras’ concentration. But that’s reasonable, since he just ran two miles. There is no other reason for Enjolras to be short of breath. None at all.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” says Grantaire after a moment, “or am I going to continue to call you the guy Prouvaire nearly killed with a volleyball?”

“Hey!” says Jehan. Enjolras is still not looking at him.

“Enjolras,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

Grantaire releases his hand and grins. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he says, and Enjolras nods.

“I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It really is no trouble at all,” says Grantaire. “Those shoes look new--I wouldn’t want you to drip blood all over them.”

“I’m not bleeding that much,” says Enjolras, dryly, but he lets Grantaire lead him into his house anyway, and walks past Courfeyrac with dignity when he gets home covered in Disney Princess band-aids.

“I talked to Grantaire,” he tells him, and slams his bedroom door in his face.

\--

Only, he doesn’t end up talking to Grantaire anymore after that. He still jogs by the man’s house, and he returns the waves and the smiles, but for the most part they do not have anything of a relationship. Not that Enjolras wants them to have a relationship. Just, Enjolras would like Courfeyrac to stop smiling at him. And also stop bringing Jehan over so that the two of them can sigh at him.

“Where are you going?” says Courfeyrac.

“Running.”

Jehan sighs.

Courfeyrac looks glum.

Enjolras considers murdering them both. “Goodbye,” he says instead, and starts out of the door.

Grantaire isn’t around when Enjolras passes his house the first time, so instead of continuing on his way, he does a loop around the block. He could use the extra five minutes, actually. It’s not anything creepy.

When he passes the second time, Grantaire is nowhere to be seen. Enjolras heart does some sort of odd flopping thing, and he shakes himself for good measure before starting on his way. Which is, of course, when Grantaire shows up riding a bike.

“Hey!” he says. “Enjolras!”

Enjolras considers his options and keeps running.

“Enjolras!” repeats Grantaire. He comes up so that he’s just behind Enjolras, and stays there. “Guy who Prouvaire nearly killed with a volleyball!”

Enjolras sighs, and looks behind him. “Hi,” he says.

“Lovely day for a ride, don’t you think?” says Grantaire.

“I don’t know,” says Enjolras. “I never really liked bikes.”

Grantaire blinks. “Why not?” he says.

“I prefer running,” says Enjolras, because that is safer than admitting he never learned.

“Oh, Enjolras,” says Grantaire. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how to ride a bicycle?”

Enjolras flushes a little in response, and speeds up. “I didn’t say that,” he says, somewhat sulkily, because apparently Grantaire is both attractive and _psychic._

“Right,” says Grantaire, not bothered in the slightest by the pace; probably because he is on a bicycle; Enjolras hates him, and Courfeyrac, and whoever decided to build Grantaire’s house on a hill.

“Would you stop following me?” he says. He sounds like an angry child even to his own ears.

“You’re the one who runs by my house every day,” points out Grantaire.

“I do not,” says Enjolras, which is ridiculous, and not at all the sort of thing that he could in any situation argue. It comes out of his mouth anyway, and he frowns and runs harder.

But because Grantaire is on a bike, this does nothing.

\--

“You want some water?” says Grantaire.

“Shut up,” gasps Enjolras, from his place lying prostrate on the grass of someone’s lawn, “and keep watch.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re at work,” says Grantaire, but he goes back to staring at their door anyway.

“I hate you,” Enjolras informs Grantaire. “Just so you know.”

Grantaire laughs at him. He has a very nice laugh, warm, and full-bodied, and it does nothing to help Enjolras get his breath back.

“You know the obvious solution to this is learning how to ride a bike,” says Grantaire.

“I know how to ride a bike!” says Enjolras.

Grantaire waits a moment.

“I just haven’t ever done it,” concedes Enjolras, finally. He puts an arm up over his eyes to shield them from the sun and sighs. “You’re never going to let me live this down,” he says.

“Nope,” agrees Grantaire. “But I will teach you how to ride a bike.”

Enjolras peeks out from under his arm at him. “Will you?” he says.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, brightly. “How hard can it be?”

Enjolras wonders if Grantaire regrets saying that, several moments later, watching as Enjolras goes colliding with a tree and over to one side.

“Ow,” says Enjolras. He considers not getting to his feet, but ultimately his dignity insists that he do so. His left arm aches, feels wet, and he really doesn’t want to look at it.

“Okay,” says Grantaire. “We could try that again?”

Enjolras looks down at his elbows, and sighs. “I don’t think a band-aid is going to help much with this,” he says.

Grantaire winces. “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d do that,” he says.

“No,” agrees Enjolras, somewhat dazedly. “But then, you let go without telling me.”

“And you panicked,” says Grantaire. He comes over to prod at Enjolras’ elbow. “I don’t think you broke anything, at least.”

“Yay,” says Enjolras, faint. “And I did not panic.”

Grantaire smoothes his thumb over the skin of Enjolras’ other arm. “You did sort of panic,” he says. “And for future reference, braking is probably done best in moderation.”

Enjolras glares at him. “I do drive cars, Grantaire,” he says, with as much dignity he can manage while the other man holds and examines his bleeding arm.

“Right,” says Grantaire. “So, similar principles with just...less wheels.”

“That’s ridiculous,” says Enjolras. “Cars are nothing like bikes.”

Grantaire shrugs. “True,” he says. “But I’m somewhat at a loss as to help you.”

“What makes you think I need your help?” says Enjolras, awkwardly, pulling his arm back and picking up the bike. It doesn’t look entirely mangled beyond repair, which is good.

“Um,” says Grantaire. “The fact that I’m teaching you to ride a bike?” He walks over and takes the bike from Enjolras, setting it on the ground and frowning. “Also, you’re bleeding.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “So?” he says. He ends up listing somewhat awkwardly to the side even as he stands there, and Grantaire catches him with concern.

“Please sit down,” he says, somewhat faintly. “I really think I need to take a look at your arm.”

Several minutes later, Enjolras arrives back home with a new set of bandages in the most dignified way he can manage.

“What did you do?” says Courfeyrac.

“I talked to Grantaire,” says Enjolras, and slams the bedroom door in his face.

\--

Grantaire following him on his bike becomes something of a ritual after that. It’s nice, if filled with moments where Enjolras jumps out of his skin because someone is talking to him or trips over his own feet because that someone is Grantaire, and he doesn’t break or wound himself again.

(Courfeyrac thinks it’s sweet, but Enjolras is pretty sure that Courfeyrac is very close to wanting to shake him vigorously for hours, if the way Jehan and Combeferre and Cosette have taken to walking up behind him and physically taking him away from Enjolras.)

He deviates from his usual route more times than he count--for an impromptu adventure at a museum and a library and a coffee shop--and he ends up debating more aspects of politics and history and current events and even, for some reason, sidewalk chalk than he can count. It’s nice, and lovely, and Enjolras spends the next few weeks on something of a high.

The picnic is somewhat unprompted, but Enjolras does have to admit that it’s lunch time.

“Come on, you’ve been running for an hour,” says Grantaire.

“I have not,” says Enjolras, reflexively, before he realizes that he has in fact been running for an hour.

“You have, actually,” says Grantaire, because he is that sort of person.

Enjolras isn’t sure if what he wants to do is punch the air because he’s actually gotten in shape, or run all the way home because Grantaire has made him sandwiches.

“Did you make me sandwiches?” he says.

“No,” says Grantaire. “I made us sandwiches. Or me sandwiches. You’re only getting sandwiches because you are bones.” He pokes Enjolras in the side to prove his point, and frowns.

Enjolras sighs and settles onto the ground next to him, taking the bottled water and sandwich he offers him without comment. He takes a sip of the water, a bite of the sandwich, and blinks. “These are really good.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, wryly. “I try.”

“No, I--” says Enjolras, and then shoves a sandwich in his mouth just to get himself to stop talking.

Grantaire watches him chew with amusement before leaning back on his hands. “I’m glad you like my cooking,” he says. “You should come over sometime and have something that requires actual skill, though.”

Enjolras nearly chokes in his haste to swallow. “Okay?” he says.

Grantaire smiles back at him, sweetly, and his stomach swoops a little. “In fact,” he says, “want to go back to mine now? We could watch a movie.”

Enjolras considers the rest of his run with a sigh, and shrugs. “Why not?” he says.

They end up seated on Grantaire’s couch, watching terrible horror movies and throwing popcorn across the room into each other’s mouths.

“Hold on,” says Grantaire, after his third catch. He gets up and goes over to the TV, which shows a man fighting a very large alligator, and opens his mouth. “Now try.”

Enjolras sighs, and throws him a piece of popcorn. It hits him square in the nose.

“Ha,” says Grantaire. He reaches into his own bowl and throws one at Enjolras, who catches it easily and chews. “I win.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, and throws a handful at him in spite.

Grantaire catches at least three of them with his mouth, and the rest with his hands. “Cheater,” he says.

“How are you doing that?” says Enjolras.

“I have a very talented mouth,” says Grantaire.

Enjolras opens and closes his own mouth and blinks. “Um,” he says.

Grantaire’s ears are slightly pink, but he doesn’t so much as falter when he says, “What?”

“Nothing,” says Enjolras, brightly. He glances at the television for a moment longer, before turning back to Grantaire. “Can you change the subject, though?” he says. “I have no ideas.”

Grantaire stares at him, before laughing. “You’re ridiculous,” he says.

“You like me anyway, though,” says Enjolras.

“Enough to follow you relentlessly on my bike,” agrees Grantaire. “Although to be fair, I was just covering my ass after Jehan nearly concussed you.”

“He did not,” says Enjolras, smiling. “He grazed me.”

“You were bleeding,” argues Grantaire.

“I was fine,” says Enjolras. “Yesterday, however...” He trails off, still smiling, and flicks his eyes over to Grantaire. The bandages on his arm itch a little, but Combeferre had assured him he was fine. Joly had also, but Joly’s assurances came fully equipped with every disease possibly one could get from an open wound or even just being near bike-paint.

“Now that one was not my fault at all,” says Grantaire. “You’re obviously a ridiculous human.” He gets to his feet and comes over to inspect Enjolras’ popcorn bowl. “Want more?”

“Sure,” says Enjolras. “Although I think I was promised actual food.”

Grantaire shoves him very gently and takes his bowl. “You have a problem with popcorn?” he says.

“You heated it in the microwave,” says Enjolras. “I believe I was promised something with actual skill.”

Grantaire narrows his eyes at him. “You’re on,” he says. “What allergies do you have?”

\--

Grantaire insists on driving Enjolras home.

“It’s only fair,” he says, as Enjolras is buckling into the passenger’s seat. “I could bike you home, but that sounds dangerous seeing as the sun is setting.”

Enjolras has to admit that is true. “Fine,” he says.

“I’m glad you’re on the same page as me,” says Grantaire, putting an arm on the back of Enjolras’ seat to back out of his parking space.

Enjolras rubs at the band-aids still covering his arm and sighs. “Yeah,” he says. He’s only still wearing the band-aids because of Joly. (Or rather, because of Musichetta and Bossuet, who had informed him of Joly’s hours spent waiting for Enjolras to return home from his runs uninjured. This should have worried Enjolras, but really all it did was explain to him just who Courfeyrac was calling, frantically, every time Enjolras got home.)

“This yours?” says Grantaire, suddenly, and Enjolras blinks.

“Oh, um, yeah,” he says. He’d forgotten that he lived only two blocks from Grantaire; they probably could have walked. That thought shouldn’t make Enjolras feel quite so jittery, but it does, so he unbuckles his seat belt, somewhat slowly, and reaches for the door.

It’s locked.

“Are you going to unlock the door?” says Enjolras. When he turns to Grantaire, it’s to find the man smiling at him.

“Why?” Grantaire says. “Going somewhere?”

“My house,” says Enjolras.

“Ah,” says Grantaire. He looks almost hesitant, but he unlocks the door with a click. Enjolras lets out a deeper-than-necessary breath, and closes his eyes.

Only, when Enjolras gets out of the car, it’s to find Grantaire standing in front of him smiling.

“What?” he says. “I’ve successfully delivered you to your house sans bleeding wound--I’m not about to ruin that track record.”

Enjolras shakes his head at him, smiling, but lets the other man lead him up the steps to the porch. “Success,” he says, and of course then stumbles on the last step.

“Woops.” Grantaire catches him with a well placed hand on his shoulder and moves in so that their chests are nearly touching. On every exhale, Enjolras feels the lack of distance, suddenly freezing in the cooling night air with only the protection of his running clothes.

“That was a close one,” breathes Grantaire.

“Yeah,” says Enjolras, equally soft. He meets Grantaire’s eyes in the dying sunlight and swallows. “I think my legs fell asleep.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire. “Maybe we should skip the running next time?” And then he very hesitantly leans forward to press something of a kiss to the corner of Enjolras’ mouth. He’d call it a kiss if his legs weren’t busy failing to hold his weight, and if his tongue wasn’t lead in his mouth. He settles for exhaling sharply.

 “Okay?” he manages. He’s having a little trouble inhaling now, but he manages something of an awkward wave, before turning on his heel, unlocking the door and walking on some sort of autopilot into the house. The pants, at least, he knows make his ass look good.

“Hey,” says Courfeyrac, from the living room couch. He’s holding a glass in one hand. “How was your date?”

Enjolras ignores him and heads for the bathroom. “Fuck off, Courfeyrac,” he says. In the hours spent with Grantaire, he’d somehow managed to forget about the fact that he’s covered in dried sweat. But not anymore--now he can slip of his running shoes, set the socks into them, grab a fluffy towel, and turn the water on.

It occurs to him, as he’s stripping off the clothing that he and Grantaire have been running and biking together a lot. That they went to a museum, which Grantaire paid for, and a coffee shop, which Enjolras paid for, and also that _Grantaire just kissed him on his porch_.

Enjolras shuts the hot water off and wraps the towel around his waist. “Courfeyrac?” he says.

“Yes?” His friend sounds cautious.

“What makes you say we’re dating?”

There is the sound of something breaking, possibly glass. “Honestly?” says Courfeyrac, voice uncommonly high. “The number one reason is that Grantaire has not driven away and is instead lounging on our porch?”

Enjolras blinks. “The second reason?”

“Do I need a second reason?” says Courfeyrac, shrilly.

Enjolras considers that. “Good point,” he says, and starts out of the bathroom. He passes Courfeyrac, who has indeed shattered his glass somehow and appears to be bleeding. “You should get that looked at,” he tells him, and tries not to smile when his friend makes a horrible noise of pain.

Out on the porch, he finds that Grantaire has not driven away, and is in fact lounging on the porch swing. He has his feet up on the railing, and he’s rocking the thing back and forth.

“Hello,” he says.

Enjolras considers putting his hands on his hips, but he’s only wearing a towel and he wouldn’t want to risk it. Instead, he crosses his arms, still holding onto the towel, and raises one eyebrow.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow right back at him, and Enjolras scowls because they _are_ dating, aren’t they?

“When were you going to tell me we were dating?” he says.

Grantaire blinks. “What?” he says.

Enjolras doesn’t wait for him to respond before walking over and settling into Grantaire’s lap. He has to push his legs down off the railing, and the lack of clothing is somewhat awkward, but he makes it work. Grantaire’s hands end up on his hips, which helps, and the other man sort of gazes up at him, blankly.

“When were you going to tell me we were dating?” repeats Enjolras, as less of a question but more of an excuse to lean in close.

“Wait,” says Grantaire, just as Enjolras pauses to ghost his nose against Grantaire’s. “Did you honestly not know?”

“Shut up,” says Enjolras, right up against Grantaire’s lips, and kisses him.

\--

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/).


End file.
